 | CHAPTER XV. The chainbearer, or, The Littlepage manuscripts |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
—The victory is yours, sir.”
“King.
—It is a glorious one, and well sets off
Our scene of mercy; to the dead we tender
Our sorrow; to the living, ample wishes
Of future happiness.”
Beaumont and Fletcher.
Fatigue kept me in bed next morning until it was late.
On quitting the house I passed through the gateway, then
always left open—defence being no longer thought of—and
walked musingly towards the grave of Chainbearer. Previously
to doing this, I went as far as each corner of the
building, however, to cast an eye over the fields. On one
side of the house I saw my father and mother, arm in arm,
gazing around them; while on the other, Aunt Mary stood
by herself, looking wistfully in the direction of a wooded
ravine, which had been the scene of some important event
in the early history of the country. When she turned to
re enter the building, I found her face bathed in tears. This
respectable woman, who was now well turned of forty, had
lost her betrothed in battle, on that very spot, a quarter of a
century before, and was now gazing on the sad scene for
the first time since the occurrence of the event.
Something almost as interesting, though not of so sad a
nature, also drew my parents to the other side of the house.
When I joined them, an expression of grateful happiness, a
little saddened perhaps by incidental recollections, was on
the countenance of each. My dear mother kissed me
affectionately as I drew near, and the general cordially
gave me his hand while wishing me good-morning.
“We were talking of you,” observed the last, “at the
very moment you appeared. Ravensnest is now becoming
a valuable property; and its income, added to the products
of this large, and very excellent farm that you have in your
own hands, should keep a country-house, not only in abundance,
but with something more. You will naturally think of
that you ought to build a good, substantial stone dwelling
on this very spot, and settle down on your own property.
Nothing contributes so much to the civilization of a country
as to dot it with a gentry, and you will both give and receive
advantages by adopting such a course. It is impossible
for those who have never been witnesses of the result,
to appreciate the effect produced by one gentleman's family
in a neighbourhood, in the way of manners, tastes, general
intelligence, and civilization at large.”
“I am very willing to do my duty, sir, in this, as in
other particulars; but a good stone country-house, such as
a landlord ought to build on his property, will cost money,
and I have no sum in hand to use for such a purpose.”
“The house will cost far less than you suppose. Materials
are cheap, and so is labour just now. Your mother
and myself will manage to let you have a few extra thousands,
for our town property is beginning to tell again, and
fear nothing on that score. Make your selection of a spot,
and lay the foundation of the house this autumn; order the
lumber sawed, the lime burned, and other preparations
made—and arrange matters so that you can eat your Christmas
dinner, in the year 1785, in the new residence of Ravensnest.
By that time you will be ready to get married,
and we may all come up to the house-warming.”
“Has anything occurred in particular, sir, to induce you
to imagine I am in any haste to marry? You seem to couple
matrimony and the new house together, in a way to
make me think there has.”
I caught the general there, and, while my mother turned
her head aside and smiled, I saw that my father coloured a
little, though he made out to laugh. After a moment of
embarrassment, however, he answered with spirit — my
good, old grandmother coming up and linking her arm at
his vacant side as he did so.
“Why, Mord, my boy, you can have very little of the
sensibility of the Littlepages in you,” he said, “if you can
be a daily spectator of such female loveliness as is now
near you, and not lose your heart.”
Grandmother fidgeted, and so did my mother; for I could
see that both thought the general had made too bold a demonstration.
more on their guard. I reflected a moment, and then determined
to be frank; the present being as good a time as
any other, to reveal my secret.
“I do not intend to be insincere with you, my dear sir,”
I answered, “for I know how much better it is to be open
on matters that are of a common interest in a family, than
to affect mysteriousness. I am a true Littlepage on the
score of sensibility to the charms of the sex, and have not
lived in daily familiar intercourse with female loveliness,
without experiencing so much of its influence as to be a
warm advocate for matrimony. It is my wish to marry,
and that, too, before this new abode of Ravensnest can be
completed.”
The common exclamation of delight that followed this
declaration, sounded in my ears like a knell, for I knew it
must be succeeded by a disappointment exactly proportioned
to the present hopes. But I had gone too far to retreat, and
felt bound to explain myself.
“I 'm afraid, my dear parents, and my beloved grandmother,”
I continued, as soon as I could speak, conscious
of the necessity of being as prompt as possible, “that you
have misunderstood me.”
“Not at all, my dear boy—not at all,” interrupted my
father. “You admire Priscilla Bayard, but have not yet so
far presumed on your reception as to offer. But what of
that? Your modesty is in your favour; though I will acknowledge
that, in my judgment, a gentleman is bound to
let his mistress know, as soon as his own mind is made up,
that he is a suitor for her hand, and that it is ungenerous
and unmanly to wait until certain of success. Remember
that, Mordaunt, my boy; modesty may be carried to a fault
in a matter of this sort.”
“You still misunderstand me, sir. I have nothing to reproach
myself with on the score of manliness, though I may
have gone too far in another way without consulting my
friends. Beyond sincere good-will and friendship, Priscilla
Bayard is nothing to me, and I am nothing to Priscilla
Bayard.”
“Mordaunt!” exclaimed a voice, that I never heard without
its exciting filial tenderness.
“I have said but truth, dearest mother, and truth that
ought to have been sooner said. Miss Bayard would refuse
me to-morrow, were I to offer.”
“You don't know that, Mordaunt—You can't know it
until you try,” interrupted my grandmother, somewhat
eagerly. “The minds of young women are not to be judged
by the same rules as those of young men. Such an offer
will not come every day, I can tell her; and she 's much
too discreet and right-judging to do anything so silly. To
be sure, I have no authority to say how Priscilla feels towards
you; but, if her heart is her own, and Mordy Littlepage
be not the youth that has stolen it, I am no judge of
my own sex.”
“But, you forget, dearest grandmother, that were your
flattering opinions in my behalf all true—as I have good
reason to believe they are not—but were they true, I could
only regret it should be so; for I love another.”
This time the sensation was so profound as to produce a
common silence. Just at that moment an interruption occurred,
of a nature both so sweet and singular, as greatly
to relieve me at least, and to preclude the necessity of my
giving any immediate account of my meaning. I will explain
how it occurred.
The reader may remember that there were, originally,
loops in the exterior walls of the house at Ravensnest, placed
there for the purposes of defence, and which were used as
small windows in these peaceable times. We were standing
beneath one of those loops, not near enough, however, to be
seen or heard by one at the loop, unless we raised our voices
above the tone in which we were actually conversing. Out
of this loop, at that precise instant, issued the low, sweet
strains of one of Dus' exquisite Indian hymns, I might almost
call them, set, as was usual with her, to a plaintive Scotch
melody. On looking towards the grave of Chainbearer, I
saw Susquesus standing over it, and I at once understood
the impulse which led Ursula to sing this song. The words
had been explained to me, and I knew that they alluded to a
warrior's grave.
The raised finger, the delighted expression of the eye, the
attitude of intense listening which my beloved mother assumed,
each and all denoted the pleasure and emotion she experienced.
language to English, after the last guttural words of the
Onondago had died on our ears, and commenced to the same
strain a solemn English hymn, that was short in itself, but
full of piety and hope, the tears started out of my mother's
and grandmother's eyes, and even General Littlepage sought
an occasion to blow his nose in a very suspicious manner.
Presently, the sounds died away, and that exquisite melody
ceased.
“In the name of wonder, Mordaunt, who can this nightingale
be?” demanded my father, for neither of the ladies
could speak.
“That is the person, sir, who has my plighted faith—the
woman I must marry, or remain single.”
“This, then, must be the Dus Malbone, or Ursula Malbone,
of whom I have heard so much from Priscilla Bayard,
within the last day or two,” said my mother, in the tone and
with the manner of one who is suddenly enlightened on any
subject that has much interest with him, or her; “I ought
to have expected something of the sort, if half the praises
of Priscilla be true.”
No one had a better mother than myself. Thoroughly a
lady in all that pertains to the character, she was also an
humble and pious Christian. Nevertheless, humility and
piety are, in some respects, particularly the first, matters
of convention. The fitness of things had great merit in the
eyes of both my parents, and I cannot say that it is entirely
without it in mine. In nothing is this fitness of things more
appropriate than in equalizing marriages; and few things
are less likely to be overlooked by a discreet parent, than
to have all proper care that the child connects itself prudently;
and that, too, as much in reference to station, habits,
opinions, breeding in particular, and the general way of
thinking, as to fortune. Principles are inferred among people
of principle, as a matter of course; but subordinate to
these, worldly position is ever of great importance in the
eyes of parents. My parents could not be very different
from those of other people, and I could see that both now
thought that Ursula Malbone, the Chainbearer's niece, one
who had actually carried chain herself, for I had lightly
mentioned that circumstance in one of my letters, was
Neither said much, however; though my father did
put one or two questions that were somewhat to the point,
ere we separated.
“Am I to understand, Mordaunt,” he asked, with a little
of the gravity a parent might be expected to exhibit on hearing
so unpleasant an announcement—“Am I to understand,
Mordaunt, that you are actually engaged to this young—
eh-eh-eh—this young person?”
“Do not hesitate, my dear sir, to call Ursula Malbone a
lady. She is a lady by both birth and education. The
last, most certainly, or she never could have stood in the
relation she does to your family.”
“And what relation is that, sir?”
“It is just this, my dear father. I have offered to Ursula
—indiscreetly, hastily, if you will, as I ought to have waited
to consult you and my mother—but we do not always follow
the dictates of propriety in a matter of so much feeling.
I dare say, sir, you did better”—here I saw a slight smile
on the pretty mouth of my mother, and I began to suspect
that the general had been no more dutiful than myself in
this particular—“but I hope my forgetfulness will be excused,
on account of the influence of a passion which we all
find so hard to resist.”
“But, what is the relation this young—lady—bears to
my family, Mordaunt? You are not already married?”
“Far from it, sir; I should not so far have failed in respect
to you three—or even to Anneke and Katrinke. I
have offered, and have been conditionally accepted.”
“Which condition is—”
“The consent of you three; the perfect approbation of
my whole near connection. I believe that Dus, dear Dus;
does love me, and that she would cheerfully give me her
hand, were she certain of its being agreeable to you, but
that no persuasion of mine will ever induce her so to do,
under other circumstances.”
“This is something, for it shows the girl has principle,”
answered my father. “Why, who goes there?”
“Who went there?” sure enough. There went Frank
Malbone and Priscilla Bayard, arm and arm, and so engrossed
in conversation that they did not see who were observing
woods, quite sheltered from curious eyes, and at liberty to
saunter about, as much occupied with each other as they
pleased; or, what is more probable, that they thought of
nothing, just then, but of themselves. They came out of
the court, and walked off swiftly into the orchard, appearing
to tread on air, and seemingly as happy as the birds
that were carolling on the surrounding trees.
“There, sir,” I said, significantly—“There, my dear
mother, is the proof that Miss Priscilla Bayard will not
break her heart on my account.”
“This is very extraordinary, indeed!” exclaimed my
much disappointed grandmother — “Is not that the young
man who we were told acted as Chainbearer's surveyor,
Corny?”
“It is, my good mother, and a very proper and agreeable
youth he is, as I know by a conversation held with him last
night. It is very plain we have all been mistaken”—added
the general; “though I do not know that we ought to say
that we have any of us been deceived.”
“Here comes Kate, with a face which announces that she
is fully mistress of the secret,” I put in, perceiving my sister
coming round our angle of the building, with a countenance
which I knew betokened that her mind and heart were full.
She joined us, took my arm without speaking, and followed
my father who led his wife and mother to a rude bench that
had been placed at the foot of a tree, where we all took seats,
each waiting for some other to speak. My grandmother
broke the silence.
“Do you see Pris. Bayard yonder, walking with that Mr.
Frank Chainbearer, or Surveyor, or whatever his name is,
Katrinke dear?” asked the good old lady.
“I do, grandmamma,” answered the good young lady, in
a voice so pitched as to be hardly audible.
“And can you explain what it means, darling?”
“I believe I can, ma'am — if — if — Mordaunt wishes to
hear.”
“Don't mind me, Kate,” returned I, smiling—“My heart
will never be broken by Miss Priscilla Bayard.”
The look of sisterly solicitude that I received from that
honest-hearted girl, ought to have made me feel very grateful;
is a sweet thing. I believe the calmness of my countenance
and its smiling expression encouraged the dear creature, for
she now began to tell her story as fast as was at all in rule.
“The meaning, then, is this,” said Kate. “That gentleman
is Mr. Francis Malbone, and he is the engaged suitor
of Priscilla. I have had all the facts from her own mouth.”
“Will you, then, let us hear as many of them as it is
proper we should know?” said the general, gravely.
“There is no wish on the part of Priscilla to conceal anything.
She has known Mr. Malbone several years, and they
have been attached all that time. Nothing impeded the affair
but his poverty. Old Mr. Bayard objected to that, of course
you know, as fathers will, and Priscilla would not engage
herself. But — do you not remember to have heard of the
death of an old Mrs. Hazleton, at Bath in England, this summer,
mamma? The Bayards are in half-mourning for her,
now.”
“Certainly, my dear—Mrs. Hazleton was Mr. Bayard's
aunt; I knew her well once, before she became a refugee—
her husband was a half-pay Colonel Hazleton of the royal
artillery; and they were tories of course. The aunt was
named Priscilla, and was godmother to our Pris.”
“Just so — Well, this lady has left Pris, ten thousand
pounds in the English funds, and the Bayards now consent
to her marrying Mr. Malbone. They say, too, but I don't
think that can have had any influence, for Mr. Bayard and
his wife are particularly disinterested people, as indeed are
all the family”—added Kate, hesitatingly and looking down:
“but they say that the death of some young man will probably
leave Mr. Malbone the heir of an aged cousin of his
late father's.”
“And now, my dear father and mother, you will perceive
that Miss Bayard will not break her heart because I happen
to love Dus Malbone. I see by your look, Katrinke, that
you have had some hint of this backsliding also.”
“I have; and what is more, I have seen the young lady,
and can hardly wonder at it. Anneke and I have been
passing two hours with her this morning; and, since you
cannot get Pris., I know no other, Mordaunt who will so
also!”
Dear, good, sober-minded, judicious Anneke; — she had
penetrated into the true character of Dus, in a single interview;
a circumstance that I ascribed to the impression left
by the recent death of Chainbearer. Ordinarily, that spirited
young woman would not have permitted a sufficiently near
approach in a first interview, to permit a discovery of so
many of her sterling qualities; but now her heart was softened,
and her spirit so much subdued, one of Anneke's
habitual gentleness would be very apt to win on her sympathies,
and draw the two close to each other. The reader is
not to suppose that Dus had opened her mind like a vulgar
school-girl, and made my sister a confidant of the relation
in which she and I stood to one another. She had not said,
or hinted, a syllable on the subject. The information Kate
possessed had come from Priscilla Bayard, who obtained it
from Frank, as a matter of course; and my sister subsequently
admitted to me that her friend's happiness was augmented
by the knowledge that I should not be a sufferer by
her earlier preference for Malbone, and that she was likely
to have me for a brother-in-law. All this I gleaned from
Kate, in our subsequent conferences.
“This is extraordinary!” exclaimed the general—“very
extraordinary; and to me quite unexpected.”
“We can have no right to control Miss Bayard's choice,”
observed my discreet and high-principled mother. “She is
her own mistress, so far as we are concerned; and if her
own parents approve of her choice, the less we say about
it the better. As respects this connection of Mordaunt's, I
hope he, himself, will admit of our right to have opinions.”
“Perfectly so, my dearest mother. All I ask of you is
to express no opinion, however, until you have seen Ursula
— have become acquainted with her, and are qualified to
judge of her fitness to be not only mine, but any man's wife.
I ask but this of your justice.”
“It is just; and I shall act on the suggestion,” observed
my father. “You have a right to demand this of us, Mordaunt,
and I can promise for your mother, as well as myself.”
“After all, Anneke,” put in grandmother, “I am not sure
towards us. Had she dropped the remotest hint of her being
engaged to this Malbrook, I would never have endeavoured
to lead my grandson to think of her seriously for one moment.”
“Your grandson never has thought of her seriously for
one moment, or for half a moment, dearest grandmother,”
I cried; “so give your mind no concern on that subject.
Nothing of the sort could make me happier than to know
that Priscilla Bayard is to marry Frank Malbone; unless it
were to be certain I am myself to marry the latter's half-sister.”
“How can this be? — How could such a thing possibly
come to pass, my child! I do not remember ever to have
heard of this person—much less to have spoken to you on
the subject of such a connection.”
“Oh! dearest grandmother, we truant children sometimes
get conceits of this nature into our heads and hearts, without
stopping to consult our relatives as we ought to do.”
But it is useless to repeat all that was said in the long and
desultory conversation that followed. I had no reason to
be dissatisfied with my parents, who ever manifested towards
me not only great discretion, but great indulgence. I confess,
when a domestic came to say that Miss Dus was at the
breakfast-table, waiting for us alone, I trembled a little for
the effect that might be produced on her appearance by the
scenes she had lately gone through. She had wept a great
deal in the course of the last week; and when I last saw
her, which was the glimpse caught at the funeral, she was
pale and dejected in aspect. A lover is so jealous of even
the impression that his mistress will make on those he
wishes to admire her, that I felt particularly uncomfortable
as we entered first the court, then the house, and last the
eating-room.
A spacious and ample board had been spread for the accommodation
of our large party. Anneke, Priscilla, Frank
Malbone, Aunt Mary, and Ursula, were already seated when
we entered, Dus occupying the head of the table. No one
had commenced the meal, nor had the young mistress of
the board even begun to pour out the tea and coffee (for my
presence had brought abundance into the house), but there
might be properly considered the principal guests. I thought
Dus had never appeared more lovely. Her dress was a neatly-arranged
and tasteful half-mourning; with which her golden
hair, rosy cheeks, and bright eyes, contrasted admirably.
The cheeks of Dus, too, had recovered their colour, and her
eyes their brightness. The fact was, that the news of her
brother's improved fortunes had even been better than we
were just told. Frank found letters for him at the 'Nest,
announcing the death of his kinsman, with a pressing invitation
to join the bereaved parent, then an aged and bedridden
invalid, as his adopted son. He was urged to bring
Dus with him; and he received a handsome remittance to
enable him so to do without inconvenience to himself. This
alone would have brought happiness back to the countenance
of the poor and dependent. Dus mourned her uncle in sincerity,
and she long continued to mourn for him; but her
mourning was that of the Christian who hoped. Chainbearer's
hurt had occurred several days before; and the first
feeling of sorrow had become lessened by time and reflection.
His end had been happy; and he was now believed
to be enjoying the fruition of his penitence through the
sacrifice of the Son of God.
It was easy to detect the surprise that appeared in the
countenances of all my parents, as Miss Malbone rose, like
one who was now confident of her position and claims to
give and to receive the salutations that were proper for the
occasion. Never did any young woman acquit herself
better than Dus, who curtsied gracefully as a queen; while
she returned the compliments she received with the self-possession
of one bred in courts. To this she was largely
indebted to nature; though her schooling had been good.
Many of the first young women of the colony had been her
companions for years; and in that day, manner was far
more attended to than it is getting to be amongst us now. My
mother was delighted; for, as she afterwards assured me,
her mind was already made up to receive Ursula as a daughter;
since she thought it due to honour to redeem my
plighted faith. General Littlepage might not have been so
very scrupulous; though even he admitted the right of the
obligations I had incurred; but Dus fairly carried him by storm.
to her beauty, rendering all she said, did, and looked, that
morning, perfect. In a word, everybody was wondering;
but everybody was pleased. An hour or two later, and after
the ladies had been alone together, my excellent grandmother
came to me and desired to have a little conversation
with me apart. We found a seat in the arbour of the court;
and my venerable parent commenced as follows:—
“Well, Mordaunt, my dear, it is time that you should
think of marrying and of settling in life. As Miss Bayard
is happily engaged, I do not see that you can do better than
to offer to Miss Malbone. Never have I seen so beautiful a
creature; and the generous-minded Pris. tells me she is as
good, and virtuous, and wise, as she is lovely. She is well
born and well educated; and may have a good fortune in
the bargain, if that old Mr. Malbone is as rich as they tell
me is, and has conscience enough to make a just will.
Take my advice, my dear son, and marry Ursula Malbone.”
Dear grandmother! I did take her advice; and I am
persuaded that, to her dying day, she was all the more happy
under the impression that she had materially aided in bringing
about the connection.
As General Littlepage and Colonel Follock had come so
far, they chose to remain a month or two, in order to look
after their lands, and to revisit some scenes in that part of
the world in which both felt a deep interest. My mother,
and Aunt Mary, too, seemed content to remain; for they
remembered events which the adjacent country recalled to
their minds with a melancholy pleasure. In the meanwhile
Frank went to meet his cousin, and had time to return, ere
our party was disposed to break up. During his absence
everything was arranged for my marriage with his sister.
This event took place just two months, to a day, from that
of the funeral of Chainbearer. A clergyman was obtained
from Albany to perform the ceremony, as neither party
belonged to the Congregational order; and, an hour after
we were united, everybody left us alone at the 'Nest, on their
return south. I say everybody, though Jaap and Susquesus
were exceptions. These two remained, and remain to this
hour; though the negro did return to Lilacsbush and Satanstoe
to assemble his family, and to pay occasional visits.
There was much profound feeling, but little parade at the
wedding. My mother had got to love Ursula as if she were
her own child; and I had not only the pleasure, but the
triumph of seeing the manner in which my betrothed rendered
herself from day to day, and this without any other
means than the most artless and natural, more and more
acceptable to my friends.
“This is perfect happiness,” said Dus to me, one lovely
afternoon that we were strolling in company along the cliff
near the Nest—and a few minutes after she had left my
mother's arms, who had embraced and blessed her, as a
pious parent does both to a well-beloved child—“This is
perfect happiness, Mordaunt, to be the chosen of you, and
the accepted of your parents! I never knew, until now,
what it is to have a parent. Uncle Chainbearer did all he
could for me, and I shall cherish his memory to my latest
breath—but uncle Chainbearer could never supply the place
of a mother. How blessed, how undeservedly blessed does
my lot promise to become! You will give me not only
parents, and parents I can love as well as if they were
those granted by nature, but you will give me also two such
sisters as few others possess!”
“And I give you all, dearest Dus, encumbered with such
a husband that I am almost afraid you will fancy the other
gifts too dearly purchased, when you come to know him
better.”
The ingenuous, grateful look, the conscious blush, and
the thoughtful, pensive smile, each and all said that my
pleased and partial listener had no concern on that score.
Had I then understood the sex as well as I now do, I might
have foreseen that a wife's affection augments, instead of
diminishing; that the love the pure and devoted matron
bears her husband increases with time, and gets to be a part
and parcel of her moral existence. I am no advocate of
what are called, strictly, “marriages of reason”—I think
the solemn and enduring knot should be tied by the hands
of warm-hearted, impulsive affection, increased and strengthened
by knowledge and confidential minglings of thought
and feeling; but, I have lived long enough to understand
that, lively as are the passions of youth, they produce no
affections of a happy married life.
And we were married! The ceremony took place before
breakfast, in order to enable our friends to reach the great
highway ere night should overtake them. The meal that
succeeded was silent and thoughtful. Then my dear, dear
mother took Dus in her arms, and kissed and blessed her
again and again. My honoured father did the same, bidding
my weeping, but happy bride remember that she was
now his daughter. “Mordaunt is a good fellow, at the bottom,
dear, and will love and cherish you, as he has promised,”
added the general, blowing his nose to conceal his
emotion; “but, should he ever forget any part of his vows,
come to me, and I will visit him with a father's displeasure.”
“No fear of Mordaunt—no fear of Mordaunt,” put in
my worthy grandmother, who succeeded in the temporary
leave-taking—“he is a Littlepage, and all the Littlepages
make excellent husbands. The boy is as like what his
grandfather was, at his time of life, as one pea is like another.
God bless you, daughter—You will visit me at
Satanstoe this fall, when I shall have great pleasure in
showing you my general's picture.”
Anneke, and Kate, and Pris. Bayard hugged Dus in such
a way that I was afraid they would eat her up, while Frank
took his leave of his sister with the manly tenderness he
always showed her. The fellow was too happy himself,
however, to be shedding many tears, though Dus actually
sobbed on his bosom. The dear creature was doubtless running
over the past, in her mind, and putting it in contrast
with the blessed present.
At the end of the honey-moon, I loved Dus twice as
much as I had loved her the hour we were married. Had
any one told me this was possible, I should have derided the
thought; but thus it was, and, I may truly add, thus has it
ever continued to be. At the end of that month, we left
Ravensnest for Lilacsbush, when I had the pleasure of seeing
my bride duly introduced to that portion of what is
called the world, to which she properly belonged. Previously
to quitting the Patent, however, all my plans were
made, and contracts were signed, preparatory to the construction
foundation was laid that same season, and we did keep our
Christmas holidays in it, the following year, by which time
Dus had made me the father of a noble boy.
It is scarcely necessary to say that Frank and Pris. were
married, as were Tom and Kate, at no great distance of
time after ourselves. Both of those matches have turned
out to be perfectly happy. Old Mr. Malbone did not survive
the winter, and he left the whole of a very sufficient estate
to his kinsman. Frank was desirous of making his sister
a sharer in his good fortune, but I would not hear of it.
Dus was treasure enough of herself, and wanted not money
to enhance her value in my eyes. I thought so in 1785,
and I think so to-day. We got some plate and presents,
that were well enough, but never would accept any portion
of the property. The rapid growth of New York brought
our vacant lots in that thriving town into the market, and
we soon became richer than was necessary to happiness. I
hope the gifts of Providence have never been abused. Of
one thing I am certain; Dus has ever been far more prized
by me than any other of my possessions.
I ought to say a word of Jaap and the Indian. Both are
still living, and both dwell at the Nest. For the Indian I
caused a habitation to be erected in a certain ravine at no
great distance from the house, and which had been the
scene of one of his early exploits in that part of the country.
Here he lives, and has lived for the last twenty years, and
here he hopes to die. He gets his food, blankets, and whatever
else is necessary to supply his few wants, at the Nest,
coming and going at will. He is now drawing fast on old
age, but retains his elastic step, upright movement, and
vigour. I do not see but he may live to be a hundred.
The same is true of Jaap. The old fellow holds on, and
enjoys life like a true descendant of the Africans. He and
Sus are inseparable, and often stray off into the forest on
long hunts, even in the winter, returning with loads of venison,
wild turkeys, and other game. The negro dwells at
the Nest, but half his time he sleeps in the wigwam, as we
call the dwelling of Sus. The two old fellows dispute frequently,
and occasionally they quarrel; but, as neither drinks, the
quarrels are never very long or very serious. They generally
connected with their respective views of the past and the
future.
Lowiny remained with us as a maid until she made a
very suitable marriage with one of my own tenants. For
a little while after my marriage I thought she was melancholy,
probably through regret for her absent and dispersed
family; but this feeling soon disappeared, and she became
contented and happy. Her good looks improved under the
influence of civilization, and I have the satisfaction of adding
that she never has had any reason to regret having attached
herself to us. To this moment she is an out-door
dependant and humble friend of my wife, and we find her
particularly useful in cases of illness among our children.
What shall I say of 'squire Newcome? He lived to a
good old age, dying quite recently; and, with many who
knew, or, rather, who did not know him, he passed for a
portion of the salt of the earth. I never proceeded against
him on account of his connection with the squatters, and he
lived his time in a sort of lingering uncertainty as to my
knowledge of his tricks. That man became a sort of a deacon
in his church, was more than once a member of the
Assembly, and continued to be a favourite recipient of public
favours down to his last moment; and this simply because
his habits brought him near to the mass, and because
he took the most elaborate care never to tell them a truth
that was unpleasant. He once had the temerity to run
against me for Congress, but that experiment proved to be
a failure. Had it been attempted forty years later, it might
have succeeded better. Jason died poor and in debt, after
all his knavery and schemes. Avidity for gold had overreached
itself in his case, as it does in those of so many
others. His descendants, notwithstanding, remain with us;
and, while they have succeeded to very little in the way of
property, they are the legitimate heritors of their ancestor's
vulgarity of mind and manners—of his tricks, his dissimulations,
and his frauds. This is the way in which Providence
“visits the sins of the fathers upon the children, unto
the third and fourth generations.”
Little more remains to be said. The owners of Mooseridge
have succeeded in selling all the lots they wished to
in the way of bonds and mortgages. Anneke and Kate
have received fair portions of this property, including much
that belonged to Colonel Follock, who now lives altogether
with my parents. Aunt Mary, I regret to say, died a few
years since, a victim to small-pox. She never married, of
course, and left her handsome property between my sisters
and a certain lady of the name of Ten Eyck, who needed
it, and whose principal claim consisted in her being a third
cousin of her former lover, I believe. My mother mourned
the death of her friend sincerely, as did we all; but we had
the consolation of believing her happy with the angels.
I caused to be erected, in the extensive grounds that were
laid out around the new dwelling at the Nest, a suitable
monument over the grave of Chainbearer. It bore a simple
inscription, and one that my children now often read and
comment on with pleasure. We all speak of him as “Uncle
Chainbearer” to this hour, and his grave is never mentioned
in other terms than those of “Uncle Chainbearer's grave.”
Excellent old man! That he was not superior to the failings
of human nature, need not be said; but, so long as he
lived, he lived a proof of how much more respectable and
estimable is the man who takes simplicity, and honesty, and
principle, and truth for his guide, than he who endeavours
to struggle through the world by the aid of falsehood, chicanery,
and trick.
| CHAPTER XV. The chainbearer, or, The Littlepage manuscripts | |